


Winning the Endgame

by Joules Mer (joulesmer)



Series: Nostos [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caring Mycroft, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Past Torture, Post-Reichenbach, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-19 10:45:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4743401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joulesmer/pseuds/Joules%20Mer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It was the sign that made him pause, keys dangling loosely and umbrella handle looped over his wrist.  A rough square of cardboard with a looping scrawl in dark ink: Need £ for cake…”</p><p>Sherlock returns from dismantling Moriarty’s network, thinner and with a smile that never quite reaches his eyes.  Mycroft is a caring brother and does what he can, and John dreams of ravens.  Post-Reichenbach, reunions (and getting Mary out of the picture).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Return

It was the sign that made him pause, keys dangling loosely and umbrella handle looped over his wrist. A rough square of cardboard with a looping scrawl in dark ink: “Need £ for cake.” There is a little styrofoam cup on the wet pavement in front of the hunched figure across the road from his front door. Mycroft froze, deducing as his eyes flicked over the homeless man even as his jaw slackened when the truth of what he was seeing became clear. He observed that his mouth had gone dry. Once you eliminate the impossible, he reminded himself, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. He’d taught Sherlock that himself over twenty years ago.

Mycroft gathered himself before carefully crossing the road. The man sitting on the pavement had slumped against a set of railings, head down, possibly not even awake. Mycroft regarded him for a moment, then said, “Hello, brother mine.”

Mycroft registered every one of the five fat raindrops that landed on his sleeve before there was a reluctant motion from the ground. Sherlock uncurled slowly, righting himself with a stiffness that worried Mycroft. When he stood there was a baggy hoodie pulled low over his face, but a few lank curls were escaping-- at least four months without a haircut. Perhaps the full five months since Mycroft lost track of him in Serbia.

Sherlock didn’t speak, and Mycroft didn’t either. The remnants of Moriarty’s network have been silent for months, but without contact from Sherlock he doesn’t know what it means. Sherlock walked with an awkward gait that didn’t seem purely due to sitting on the ground. It’s only after they re-cross the street and Mycroft bolted the door shut behind them that Sherlock raised his head and met his brother’s eyes. 

“It’s done.” Sherlock’s voice was hoarse, but firm.

Mycroft waved past the entryway to the front room. “Sit down?”

“Please.” Sherlock continued with that stiff, awkward gait and carefully lowered himself into one of the padded leather chairs.

The heavy curtains remained closed and two table lamps provided a soft light in the room. Regarding his brother, Mycroft felt a tightening of dismay in his belly. Even with limited skin on display Sherlock is clearly far too thin, his face gaunt and bones protruding in his wrists and fingers. There was a trace of yellowing bruises across his cheekbones and Mycroft wondered what his clothes were hiding.

It was only eleven in the morning, but Mycroft went to the sideboard and poured scotch into two cut glass tumblers. He handed one to his brother, then settled into the chair opposite. Softly, he asked, “What happened?”

“It was almost done. I got…” Sherlock faltered, “sloppy. I thought I could finish it faster than you’d suggested. I did take out the last of Moriarty’s network, but drew attention to myself.” He took a sip of the scotch and then kept his gaze lowered to the glass as he continued, “Some business associates of the last cell didn’t take kindly to their contacts being eliminated. They caught me outside St. Petersburg, kept me there briefly and then took me to Belarus… held me in an old dacha.”

“How long?” Mycroft kept his tone even and voice low, but it was a lie. He wanted to know, desperately needed to know what happened. It’s rare that he doesn’t know all the information on any situation, and rarer still that his plans go awry. 

“I went to Russia four days after I contacted you from Serbia. They were the thinnest of threads, minor associations and perhaps chance meetings, but every last threat had to be eliminated. You’d said to give it two months, but now that I was so close that was intolerable.” Sherlock’s hand shook ever so slightly as he raised the glass again and took a long swallow before continuing, “As much as Moran may have relied on them, Moriarty was never more than a side-game; their main business was drugs.”

Ah, thought Mycroft, the Minsk connection. The shadowy conduit of heroin from Afghanistan, through eastern and central Europe and then across the globe. They’d never quite been able to stamp that one out; just a little too powerful and too well connected in shadowy post-Soviet states.

Sherlock takes another swallow, gasping slightly at the burn of the scotch and Mycroft returned his attention to the present. “I watched for a week, until I was sure I knew every last one that had dealt with Moran, then I removed them. I went back to my hotel, I was using Wouter Becker in case you were looking for me, but I don’t think they bothered to properly register my details. The night clerk was sleeping with the manager’s sister and more concerned with that than anything else. The door was forced open that night and they had me until three days ago. At first I hoped it was a matter of time, but then I realised you must have lost me.” It’s not an accusation, but the truth hangs heavily between them.

Almost five months in a hole in Belarus. It was the second-worst possible explanation for the sudden disappearance. “I went to Serbia.” Mycroft’s admission was startling, as much to Sherlock as to himself for saying it.

“You?” Sherlock’s eyebrows vanished into his tattered hairline. “You came into the field?”

Mycroft nodded and tried to select his words with his usual level of care. “I was… concerned. I knew you were losing patience before I lost you, and none of our locally placed operatives could come up with anything useful. The Oxbridge recruiting network rather let us down on that one.”

Sherlock smiled at that; likely some internal image of his brother attempting to blend-in rather than the ineptitude of the security service recruiters, but Mycroft couldn’t help notice that it didn’t reach his eyes. When nothing further was forthcoming, Mycroft gently prompted, “How did you get back?”

“I wasn’t held in a place they used for their main business. There were regular visits from interested parties, but after a few months it was often just a lower level interrogator and two of my guards. One of the guards was sleeping with the other man’s wife, obvious, but the cuckold didn’t see it. I was… weak… and they’d relaxed by that point. He’d unchained me to move me from the shed to the main building, and I pointed out a few of the more obvious deductions. It was enough of a distraction that I managed to steal their truck and get away. I drove all night to Berlin, then bluffed my way aboard the train.”

Mycroft scoffed, muttering, “It’s good to know our Eurotunnel security is doing so well.” 

Sherlock gave another one of those tight, joyless smiles at that. He finished his scotch and held his glass out for more, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the chair. Mycroft refilled the glass and took the opportunity to look closely at Sherlock unobserved. Far, far too thin, obviously still in physical pain. He wondered if his personal physician would be permitted, or sent away. A very slight flush was appearing on Sherlock’s cheeks, a fever… or perhaps the alcohol. He poured a slightly smaller measure and returned the glass to his brother’s hand.

They sat together, simply enjoying the company after a long two years, until Mycroft had to break the silence and ask, “And it’s completely done?”

“Completely.” Sherlock’s eyes struggled open and he met his brother’s gaze as he confirmed, “That was the absolute end of them.”

Mycroft nodded, put his own scotch down on the side table and straightened in his chair. “Tell me everything, even the things you know I’ve deduced.”

The gloomy light of a rainy morning edging around the curtains turned into the gloomy light of a dreary afternoon by the time Sherlock had finished. He’d downed his second scotch as well, and hadn’t met Mycroft’s eyes at all for the last hour of his tale. 

Mycroft came to a decision in his own mind, insides roiling slightly over the full details he’d only allowed himself to deduce in a detached way before. The Ice Man indeed. He licked his lips and said, “We were never made for legwork,” mouth curled in disgust around the word, “Not truly, not like that. You may go tramping around the underbelly of the city and have cracked a few ribs, but you were never made for killing anyone, Sherlock.” At the word “killing” Sherlock flinched as if he had been hit. “It might interest you to know that John Watson is still in London, although no longer inhabiting 221B Baker St.”

“Have you seen him?”

“Remotely, of course. I’m afraid he rather blamed me for your death. An important, but ultimately inconvenient fiction. He works at a GP practice in Battersea, and is currently living there with a nurse from the clinic.”

“Are they,” Sherlock hesitated, “together?” He spat the word out as if it was distasteful, and it probably was.

Mycroft nodded, considering how much to tell before settling on all of it. “He wasn’t well at all, Sherlock, not for a long time and perhaps not even now. His limp came back and I had Detective Inspector Lestrade quietly confiscate his handgun. This relationship is somewhat new, but it is nonetheless… intense. He recently made a large purchase in Hatton Garden and has a restaurant reservation tomorrow night in a rather nice establishment on the Marylebone road.”

“He’s going to propose.” Sherlock’s voice was toneless.

“It would seem so.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Indeed.” Sherlock closed his eyes again, yet Mycroft could make out rapid movement beneath the lids. “I think,” said Mycroft, “that we should resurrect you as a matter of some urgency.”

Sherlock opened his eyes, looking more lost than Mycroft could remember. Not since Redbeard, perhaps. “I won’t...”

“Yes, you will.” Mycroft interrupted him firmly, before the word “intervene” could come out. “But first, you can take a shower while I begin on the paperwork.” The paperwork has in fact been ready for almost two years, but as Mycroft guided his brother towards his own suite rather than the guest rooms he felt it was suddenly inadequate.

Mycroft deposited his brother in the lavatory, settled in the adjoining bedroom and opened a laptop with a pre-written article for The Sun titled, “Hat Detective Lives!” He deleted it, entirely, and opened a new file on The Times masthead and typed, “Hero Returns from the Dead: A secret plot, a criminal mastermind, and three lives saved at great personal cost.” By the time the shower cut off he’d completed the article and sent it on, along with instructions concerning the BBC, the Guardian, and the various tabloid publications. 

Sherlock shuffled into the room wearing Mycroft’s own dressing gown and slippers

“You’ll be all over the morning news tomorrow. Everything. Richard Brook and Moriarty. The snipers, your sacrifice, and allusions to your work over the last two years that will permit reading between the lines. Lestrade comes out well, as does John, obviously. A firm statement that there are no further details to be released and that there will be no interviews during your recovery, or afterwards… assuming you intend to continue as a consulting detective.”

“Recovery?” Sherlock frowned.

“I’m not bloody well letting you out looking like that, Sherlock.” He softens, “You’re not well at all, and I don’t want John to feel hurt that you didn’t come to him first.”

“Oh.”

Mycroft indicated the bed. “Sleep now, before you fall down. Some sort of photographic proof of your return will be needed to accompany the article. I’ll procure some appropriate clothes and make the arrangements, and get something for you to eat after you’ve slept.”


	2. Suffolk Honey

Scones, with honey. Suffolk honey. Warmed butter. Sherlock ate one, two, three scones as Mycroft sat impassively at the other side of the table. The requisite photograph had been taken, a headshot only, but Mycroft knew John would pick up the fading bruises and protruding cheekbones. In a dress shirt and trousers Sherlock’s normally lean form was skeletal and crusted scabs were just visible around his left wrist when the shirtsleeve rode up. He refused to see the doctor, and Mycroft decided not to push the matter unless John wasn’t able to get a look at him the next day. He’d touched Sherlock just once, gently, on the shoulder and his brother tensed, then with effort relaxed into the touch. Leaned in further that Mycroft would ever have expected. He still wasn’t sure what to make of it. 

He watched as Sherlock began to slather butter and honey on a fourth scone and then gently cleared his throat. “Sherlock, you have to be aware that we may have played this game a little too well. John...”

Sherlock grunted around a mouthful of scone, swallowing with difficulty to say, “Everything we did was necessary. Everything I did was for him.”

Mycroft felt his heart sink just a little and tried to explain, “That doesn’t mean it wasn’t painful. Incredibly so. Sentiment…”

Sherlock cut off his brother again: “I’m expecting him to punch me.”

“And after?”

“Move back to Baker Street,” Sherlock rolled his eyes and took another bite of scone, “obviously.”

Mycroft felt a weight settle back on his shoulders. “He mourned you Sherlock, terribly, but he’s moved on. John may not want to come back to Baker Street. Now or ever. I don’t know that you understand the situation. He’s in love now.”

Sherlock looked up sharply and says, “I know what love is, Mycroft.”

“Does John know that? On the Bart’s security feed he called you a machine. He likely believed it then, however much he may have wished it untrue.”

“You’ve been meddling.”

Mycroft smiled thinly. “Constantly. Are we on the verge of more than just a declaration of your status among the breathing?”

“Breathing’s boring.”

“Sherlock…” Head cocked sideways, there was a warning in Mycroft’s tone.

“He’s not gay.” Sherlock waved his hands expansively as he said, “He’s made sure the world knows it.”

“It’s not unheard of for people to be permitted an exception.” Mycroft sipped his own cup of tea and frowned to find it cold. “I also looked into matters in Afghanistan.” Sherlock’s brow furrowed, tellingly. Ah, thought Mycroft, so they didn’t discuss it much. “John was invalided out under traumatic circumstances, certainly, but there was an incident a month before. A lieutenant was shot and it severed an artery in his shoulder. He bled out with John attempting to hold the vessel closed while they were pinned down under fire. Apparently John and this man, a Cameron Wallace, had grown very close since Wallace had been transferred from Camp Bastion to John’s unit. There were rumours about the circumstances surrounding the transfer, some risk of impropriety in Bastion being covered up. Oh, there’s no evidence of impropriety on John’s part, but I got in touch with a former commanding officer, a Major Sholto, who said it was rather likely Wallace was at least trying to feel it out. He’s a great fan of John’s, Sholto, but fondly remembered Wallace as well.”

“Is this supposed to give me hope, Mycroft?”

“Perhaps simply once bitten…” 

Sherlock shook his head dismissively. “All that matters is the work. And for the work I need John.”

“If you say so, brother dear.” Mycroft pushed his teacup away from his place at the table. “It’s ten o’clock. John has taken to rising early on Saturday and going for a walk in Battersea Park-- he’s bound to see the news early. There are pyjamas in the larger guest bedroom. Despite your nap you look like you could go to bed early and sleep until morning.”

Sherlock slid back his chair and stood, wobbling slightly. He gave a preoccupied nod and said, “Goodnight.”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft held his brother’s gaze. “Welcome back.”

Mycroft retired to the library to think. After an hour, he texted his address and initials to John’s number. Predictably, there was no reply, but at least now John can’t say there wasn’t any sort of warning.


	3. Ravens

It was only half past eight the next morning when the doorbell rang. Mycroft sighed. The security had been dismissed and the usual surveillance turned off. The street was being held empty. He opened the door to the furious face of John Watson.

The doctor was practically vibrating with anger, left fist clenching and unclenching convulsively. “Where is he?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and said mildly, “Not just yet, Dr. Watson.”

With that, John reared back and punched Mycroft Holmes in the face, knocking him flat onto the marble doorstep. John stood over the other man, fist still moving reflexively. “Where is he, Mycroft?”

Mycroft raised himself onto one elbow and brought a shaking hand to his bleeding cheek. “He’s sleeping, and as you’re well aware of the rarity of that occurrence I’d rather he stayed that way. At least until we’ve had a chance to talk.” John deflated slightly at that and Mycroft got a good look at him. Greyer than before, bags under his eyes and face significantly more lined than two years ago. Mycroft struggled to his feet and straightened his ever-present tie before stepping to the side and indicating the open doorway. “Please come in, Dr. Watson.”

John sank into the same chair that Sherlock took just the day before, looking vaguely shellshocked.

Mycroft spared a moment to dab at his cheek with a handkerchief before he said, “You’ve read the papers?”

“Yes.” The large chair almost swallowed John up when he sat back.

“All of it?”

“Christ. Yes.” John scrubbed a hand over his face and in that moment Mycroft thought that perhaps everything will be all right. “I read it all. I can’t believe it, but I read it all.”

“Do you have any questions?”

Disbelief filled John’s face and he almost laughed in his shock. “Are you, you of all people, offering to answer questions?”

“Yes, anything you want to know.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” Mycroft answered mildly, wondering if perhaps scotch might be a good idea even so early in the day.

“Okay.” John swallowed convulsively. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you let me mourn for two years? It was unbearable. I thought… I almost couldn’t stand it.”

Mycroft met his eyes, unflinchingly, voice more gentle than John has ever heard it before, “You are a conveyor of truth, John. It is one of your greatest strengths, but also one of your weaknesses. One death is suicide, two deaths is suspicious; it would have put Lestrade and your Mrs. Hudson at risk. This was Moriarty’s plot and Moriarty’s most trusted executioners. They saw you at the pool. You can lie about shooting a cabbie, certainly, but they knew what you are capable of and how you would react. It had to be absolutely, unerringly convincing, therefore, you had to mourn. For your own sake, for the sake of your friends, and for Sherlock.”

A conveyor of truth. There was a time Sherlock called him a conductor of light. For one horrifying moment John looked like he was about to cry, then he took a shuddering breath and said, “And what about while he was away. Was he really traipsing around without backup? Did you make him do this on his own?”

There’s an accusation there that Mycroft wouldn’t even try to dispel. “I helped as much as I could, but Sherlock was forced to take on most of dismantling Moriarty’s network on his own.

“The article mentions…” John trailed off, not wanting to give voice to his suspicions.

Mycroft nodded. “He was captured and tortured, even as he completed the task. They had him for months. He only got back to London yesterday.”

John closed his eyes and gripped the arms of the chair for a long moment. Eventually, he opened them again and weariness was evident as he asked, “Why are you doing this, Mycroft?”

“He’s my brother…” Mycroft stiffened, but continued in the same mild tone, “his loss would break my heart.”

Before John could even begin to process that statement there was a faint noise from somewhere deep in the house and Mycroft froze. John’s head flicked towards the doorway. “Is he awake?”

Mycroft listened intently, then shook his head. “Nightmare. The third since he went to bed last night.” He stood and John quickly followed suit. “Come along.”

John followed Mycroft down a thickly carpeted hallway to what can only be a bedroom door. Rather than knocking, Mycroft opened the door and made his way towards the bed. The curtains were pulled, but with daylight outside John could clearly see a long, thin figure tangled face down in the duvet.

John watched with what felt like a mix of surprise and horror as Mycroft moved to the head of the bed and leaned down, firmly gripping Sherlock’s shoulder and startling the distressed man awake. Sherlock lashed out, but his brother sidestepped the blow in what looked like a practised motion. Mycroft leaned down further and John couldn’t hear the words being spoken, but he saw Sherlock’s posture change as he became aware of himself and where he was. 

Mycroft changed his grip on Sherlock’s shoulder and carefully helped him to roll over until John found himself meeting eyes he thought he’d never see again. Eyes that were very much alive.

“Hello John.” Sherlock’s voice was thick with sleep and some other emotion and John felt his own pulse rushing in his ears.

“Hello, Sherlock.” To John it didn’t sound like his own voice. Everything he’d thought of saying on the walk over flew out of his head. He cleared his throat, but it still came out wrong as he asked, “Bad dream?”

Sherlock nodded, a wariness in his eyes that John hadn’t seen before. It didn’t suit him.

John looked carefully, deducing for himself and remembering what Mycroft has told him, he noted the fading bruises on Sherlock’s face still evident in the photograph, the sunken features and the wince when he rolled onto his back. John came to a decision and began to walk slowly, non-threateningly, towards the bed. His voice still sounded off as he said, “In my dreams you’re standing on the roof of St. Bart’s in the rain. You raise your arms and let yourself fall off the edge, but as you fall you come apart into a flock of ravens, shrieking and cawing. You’re a black swirl of beaks and wings and claws and you turn at the last second before the pavement and dart towards me, enveloping me, cutting me, hurting me. I wake up gasping and I can still hear the birds.” John settled on the very edge of the bed and sensed rather than saw Mycroft slip out of the room.

Sherlock licked his lips, looking slightly dazed as he said, “In my dreams the short one is working on me. He was the worst, because he didn’t just hurt, but he knew what to say. He knew in a second I was more than just some hired thug or intelligence agent; he knew I was out there for a reason. A reason that mattered to me. He was older, likely ex-KGB, although he’d have been youngish in the 80’s. In my dreams I open my eyes and you’re there, right in front of me, and I’ve failed. And they kill you, and I can hear Moriarty laughing.”

John swallowed convulsively. “I have another dream. I see you fall and I’m frozen in place, unable to move as you land, as the blood pools underneath your head. Then I’m beside you and there’s no one else there. I have one hand on your pulseless wrist and one on your face and your blank eyes are staring back at me.”

Sherlock extended one bony hand and John reached out clumsily, yet unerringly grasping his wrist and feeling the pulse thudding reassuringly. 

“I’ve...” John choked slightly on the words he’s only ever said to a tombstone. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“I was lost without my blogger.” It’s not quite what Sherlock wanted to say, but perhaps John understood as he made the choking sound again and then pulled Sherlock into a tight hug. Sherlock knew it should hurt, and it did at some level, but it also felt wonderful. He brought his arms up in return and found himself gripping John more fiercely than he’d intended. 

They stayed like that for a long while, then John suddenly pushed back. “Shit, sorry, I didn’t mean to grab you like that.”

“It’s fine.” Sherlock missed the touch immediately.

“That must have hurt.” John backed up even further, skittering down towards the foot of the bed. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s fine, John.” Sherlock said it with something approaching his usual force and John stuttered into silence.

Now that he was here, really here, he didn’t know what to say so settles on practicalities. “What did the doctor say?” Sherlock’s lips thinned and John found himself back on familiar territory. “You haven’t seen a doctor, have you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Sherlock scoffed and tries to sit up further, but the protest was ruined by the stiffness of his movements. “I’m fine.”

“Not from where I’m sitting, Sherlock, and unlike you I am a doctor.” Sherlock’s lips thinned even further and John decided to try another tactic, one he hand’t used before. “Please, Sherlock. I’m worried about you.” That got a different reaction, as whatever was making Sherlock tense vanished. John pressed his advantage and simply said, “Please?”

Sherlock exhaled heavily and nodded, no longer meeting John’s eyes.

“Can you take your shirt off?”

The pyjama top had buttons, and Sherlock wordlessly began to undo them.

John looked around the room and spotted a black bag on the edge of the desk: his bag that, so far as he knew, was still at the surgery after being left there Friday evening. John retrieved the bag and found two additional packages of bandages, sterile wipes, and what are definitely prescription-only antibiotics and painkillers that he’d never ordered himself. Breathing a word of thanks to Mycroft, he returned to the bed and found that Sherlock had finished with the buttons, but made no move to open or remove the shirt.

Sherlock’s gaze was still fixed on the blankets, so John reached out and gently eased the top open and off his shoulders. The bruising was horrific, even in the dim light, or perhaps because of it. John had to clench his jaw to hide a reaction. Once he’s sure he can keep his voice even, he said, “I’m going to need to turn the lights on properly. Can you get your hands free?” He didn’t wait for a reply, but quickly stepped away to the lightswitch, then back to the bed. 

The bruising was as bad as in the semi-darkness, but the lights exposed the burn marks, both recent and fading, that criss-crossed Sherlock’s chest. There was a ring of crusted, weeping and likely infected sore around Sherlock’s left wrist, apparently where a restraint rubbed and cut into the skin. The burns were small, even, but numerous. Cigarettes, John’s brain helpfully supplied.

“I think I’ve rather gone off smoking.” The dry comment delivered by Sherlock made John suddenly look up and find the detective watching him intently. “My back is worse. The front they just did when they were bored.”

John felt ill. He slipped off his shoes, slid up onto the bed and clambered on his knees behind Sherlock. 

There were whip marks. Many of them. Long lashes, some silvery scars of new skin, some faded, some very recent with livid reds and purples, and some that fully broke the skin. “Oh, Sherlock.” John reached out a hand and ran a finger gently over one of the scars, unable to resist the urge to touch. “I’m so sorry.”

Sherlock shivered at the contact and John snatched his hand back. Sherlock’s voice rumbled in his chest. “I’m just glad they preferred the lash to a knife. I’d have had rather too many holes, otherwise.”

John looked at the lash marks that broke the skin. “You have rather enough as it is.” Several are infected, but not too badly. John set about methodically cleaning them, trying to do it as painlessly as possible. Once or twice Sherlock’s breath hissed through his teeth, but otherwise he was silent.

John finished on Sherlock’s back and moved around to sit in front of him. Sherlock was looking down again rather than making eye contact. The wrist was worse. The cuts were deeper than John initially realised and the skin was inflamed and weeping with infection. He set about cleaning it as gently as he could, but knew it must be very painful. Sherlock didn’t make a sound during the entire process, not even when John had to probe deeply into the wounds to pick out what look like small pieces of cloth or rope binding. He finished by gently wrapping it in a sterile bandage and as he carefully taped it off the tension that had filled Sherlock’s frame during the cleaning finally relaxed.

John allowed himself a few seconds just to sit before saying with an apology in his tone, “I need to check the rest of you.”

Sherlock’s eyes flew to John’s face and a flush stained his cheeks. His lips moved wordlessly, then he finally got out, “There isn’t anything else.” Embarrassed? Panicked? John couldn’t tell and it made him nervous. “Just my ankles.”

“Sherlock… please.”

“Fine,” Sherlock snapped and with a wince threw the blankets off his legs. John jumped backwards as Sherlock batted his helping hands away and clambersed out of the bed, fingers fumbling with the drawstring of his pyjamas. The trousers fell to the floor and Sherlock kicked them off his feet to stand nude next to the bed. “Satisfied?”

John kept his voice even in the face of the sudden mood swing, “Yes, actually.” He quickly glanced over Sherlock’s lower body, trying not to look too obviously in certain areas.

“Honestly, John, I kept my trousers on the entire time. They were unfortunately filthy by the end of it.” Sherlock may be an excellent and practiced liar, but John has had a lot of experience listening to said lies. There were none of his usual minute tells, and in this case the physical evidence supported him as well: a few scattered and painful looking bruises around his legs, but nothing that suggests any direct contact whatsoever. 

The ankles were another story: like the wrist an obvious point of restraint, now inflamed and infected. “Jesus, Sherlock, these are deep.” The words came out without John even intending to speak.

“They were fond of stress positions, and on occasion turned me upside down.” Sherlock’s baritone rumbles even more deeply as he said, “Just for shits and giggles.”

John set to work cleaning and bandaging as best he could and again Sherlock was resolutely silent, as if making a sound even now would satisfy his captors in some small way. The pallor of the unbruised skin was almost the colour of the bandages and it worried John. He finally finished, then efficiently helped Sherlock back into the pyjamas and under the covers. Even though it feels like Mycroft has turned up the heat, there wasn’t an ounce of fat on Sherlock’s body to help keep him warm.

John shook two pills out of the bottle of painkillers and asked, “Have you eaten?”

“Last night.” John put one capsule back, then handed it to Sherlock who swallowed it dry. “Do you want to have something to eat now, or get some more sleep first?”

Sherlock hesitated. “I think... sleep now?”

“Good.” 

John got up and flicked off the lightswitch, not sure of his welcome until Sherlock softly said, ”Wait... Could you stay?” The uncertainty that John was so unfamiliar with was back. “At least until I get to sleep?” He was looking down and pleating and unpleating the sheet with his fingers, finally smoothing it flat with the palm of his hand and admitting, “I keep forgetting where I am.”

“Of course.” John dragged the desk chair over to the bed and gently took Sherlock’s right wrist in his hand, fingers settling over the pulse point. “Sleep now, we can have something to eat later.” _I’ve got you_ , he added to himself. Sherlock made an indistinct noise, clearly unable to keep his eyes open any longer. John listened and felt as Sherlock’s breathing evened out and his pulse slowed down in sleep.

I’ve got you, thought John to himself, and you’re not going anywhere.


	4. A Denouement (Of Sorts)

John sat for a long time, just watching Sherlock sleep and thinking. Eventually he took his phone out of his pocket and dashed off a text to Mary. She had doubtlessly seen the news and put two and two together to explain why his morning walk is taking so long. He cancelled dinner, apologising, and noting that he may not make it home that night. Explained that he’s been called in as doctor. Now that he was there, holding Sherlock’s wrist and dispelling two long years of nightmares he didn’t want to let go.

Eventually he was forced to admit that sitting slightly twisted was making his back sore, and Sherlock showed no sign of waking anytime soon. He gently released the other man’s hand, smoothing it down on the duvet. The hallway outside Sherlock’s room was silent and there was no sign of anyone else in the house. John padded down the carpet, belatedly realising that he left his shoes in the bedroom. The front room was empty and John wasn’t quite ready to try the upstairs. He followed the hallway in the other direction and spotted an open doorway with light spilling out of it. 

It was a library, with two comfortable chairs set facing a marble fireplace. Mycroft was ensconced in the further chair, a glass of amber liquid on the table by his right elbow.

Not sure of his welcome John hovered in the doorway and offered, “Bit early for that, isn’t it?” Mycroft looked up sharply and John realised he surprised the other man.

There was a flicker of emotion across Mycroft’s face and he said, “That depends. How is he?”

John understood immediately and answered, “It’s awful, but not nearly as bad as it could have been.”

There was another brief flicker of emotion and John recognised relief, however fleetingly it was there. "I'd forgotten, until you described your dream." Mycroft waved a hand at the empty chair across from him and held out a square of paper. John entered the room and took the paper, only to find it was a photo of what could only be a young Sherlock: skinny as a rake in slightly ratty-kneed jeans and a black jumper. Mycroft was standing next to him. The photo was taken at a time when the small age difference between them meant a great deal: Mycroft was wearing tailored trousers and a blazer over a buttoned up shirt, although he had forgone a tie. It was a tourist's photo from the Tower of London and perched on Sherlock's shoulder was a large raven.

John could feel Mycroft studying him from the other chair. 

"That was the tail end of the pirate phase; he was already too old for it anyway, truth be told." Mycroft lifted a small wooden box off the table next to his chair and sifted through the slightly curling photographs inside. He selected one and handed it to John. The photo was of an even younger Sherlock, looking up at the camera and cradling what looks like a small heap of dark feathers in his hands. "It fell out of its nest and Sherlock found it. He kept it in a shoebox and nursed it back to health." Mycroft trailed off and smiled to himself at John's apparent interest in the contents of the box. He selected another photo and passed it over. “Sherlock and Redbeard.”

“Ah, you weren’t joking about the pirate phase.” John smiled in delight at the picture. A young Sherlock was wearing a pirate hat and apparently attempting to wrestle an eyepatch onto a long-suffering looking Irish Setter.

“Indeed. He loved that creature. Fiercely.” Mycroft picked up his glass, swirling the scotch a little before taking a sip and continuing, “Believed it when we told him Redbeard went off to live in the dales somewhere. I teased him for being taken in by an obvious fiction. Mercilessly. I shouldn’t have, but we were boys then.”

“So Sherlock has loved something beyond the work.”

Mycroft looked up sharply and said, “Surely you of all people know that.”

John shifted uncomfortably in his seat as he said, "It was a dog. That's different from a person."

“Not when you're ten." Mycroft made the observation with a twitch of his eyebrow and continued, "and when you're as bright as Sherlock it's all relative." He let John mull that over and went back to sifting through the box, eventually continuing on a tangent without looking up, “Oh, he'd be a fearsome pirate, my brother. Moriarty knew that; taunted Sherlock for being on the side of the ‘angels’. GCHQ were all over him, of course. He may have put his talent to chemistry, and eventually _detecting_ , but he's an excellent code cracker as well-- it’s all pattern recognition of a sort. He blew their screening test out of the water, but insisted it was simply for the free trip to London to turn them down in person. I suppose I should just be glad he didn't do that in a bedsheet.”

John smiled at the memory; and the ashtray that sits unobtrusively on the bookshelf in his flat with Mary.

“I assume something palatable, nourishing, yet easily digestible is in order?”

The question, like all of Mycroft’s non sequiturs, caught John off guard, which was perhaps the point. “I would say so. Do you have any soup or....”

“There's a frittata keeping warm in the oven, unless you think it would be too rich, or something else…” John shook his head and Mycroft continued, “it was Sherlock's favourite as a youngster. I caught him attempting to recreate it back at Baker Street when you were out of town, but he had the ratio of spinach to cheese all wrong. Not to mention the simply appalling job on the grating."

“The ratio?” John frowned and said, “Hang on, you _cooked_?”

Mycroft gave his more familiar smug smile. “Who do you think invented the recipe? As a child he had a bad bout of food poisoning following a rather questionable curry and struggled to eat anything for some time. This did the trick, and he'd usually ask me to make it when I was home from school.”

There's a glint of information in the casual statement that John caught. "You went to boarding school?"

“Naturally. The local offering didn't exactly suit me. Most people assume I'm an Oxford man, but I wasn't any sort of the Eton-Harrow lot and certainly not PPE.”

John made what he hoped was a sympathetic noise and files the information away for another time.

There was the faintest curl to Mycroft’s upper lip as he changed the subject again and said, “I’m sorry to make you cancel your dinner plans.”

“How did you… Don’t.” He held up a hand between them. “I don’t even want to _know_ how you knew about my dinner plans.” John huffed, drawling out the syllables, “ _Je-sus_ , Mycroft.

“Nonetheless, you must be aware that Sherlock is under the impression you will be taking up as his... _blogger_... again.”

John’s brow furrowed as he read the layers underlying the statement. “Are you… are you asking me what my intentions are towards your brother?”

Mycroft quickly said, “I’ve asked you that before.”

“Not like this.” Mycroft merely raised an eyebrow and John protested, “I. Am. Not gay.”

“Well that never stopped anyone.” Mycroft watched John closely, his face as inscrutable as ever as he softly said, “All hearts are broken, John. All lives end.” 

John took a perilously shaky breath at that. “I stood at his tombstone,” he confessed. “I asked him for one more miracle. I asked him not to be dead.”

“And here he is.” Mycroft set the box aside and stood. “So the question remains, what are you going to do about it?” He didn’t wait for an answer and moved towards the doorway. “I’m going to check on things in the kitchen, perhaps you could see if Sherlock is ready for some lunch, given that he’s missed breakfast.”

John sat in the library by himself, thoughts whirling over the conversation. He resisted the urge to pick up the closed box of photographs and snoop. Eventually he got up and returned to the bedroom. Sherlock had rolled over and buried his face in the pillows, but stirred when John entered the room.

Unsure what to say, John crossed the room to the chair by the bed and indicated the suspiciously velvet-like curtains. "Bit rich, all this." _Posh meddling git_ , he wanted to add, would have added before, but didn’t.

Sherlock’s voice was still thick with sleep, but his eyes tracked John alertly. "Mycroft isn't rich"

John scoffed and said, "One of Mycroft's suits costs as much as I make in a month."

Sherlock shook his head sharply in disagreement, rolling over and sitting up as he explained, "Mycroft isn't rich: he's powerful. He's certainly not short of money as a result, but he's not one of those creatures hanging around Mayfair. The converse can be true of course, but Mycroft isn't powerful because he has money, he's powerful because he's very smart and utterly logical."

"Utterly ruthless I'd imagine."

Sherlock closed his eyes dismissively and said, "To most people it looks like the same thing."

John felt he'd said something wrong again, but wasn’t sure what. He was not sure what to make of this new version of the Holmes brothers. The rivalry was still there at some level, simmering away under the surface, but there was clearly great affection as well, along with a protective streak that John was rapidly realising goes in both directions.

Eventually, Sherlock opened his eyes and said, “Mycroft helped plan the fall.”

“I assumed as much.” John found his hand has formed a first, and forced himself to relax it. “It's a bit more than a person could do on their own.”

“Molly helped too.”

John’s lips thinned and his jaw tensed. They sat in silence until John takes a deep breath and said, “And there was absolutely no way to let me know?”

Sherlock shook his head. After a moment, he admitted, “The homeless network helped too.”

John laughed shakily, “Great, just your brother, Molly Hooper, and a hundred tramps.”

“No, John,” Sherlock almost sounded insulted, “twenty-five at most!” 

John did laugh at that most Sherlock of outbursts and said, “I don’t know whether to punch you or hug you, but seeing as both would hurt at this point I’ll restrain myself.” As soon as the words left his lips he found his breath knocked out of him at the memory of when he did punch Sherlock, and the purring of the woman, _somebody loves you_. He cleared his throat and managed to swiftly change the subject to safer territory, “Mycroft said that lunch is ready. In the kitchen. I think he’s waiting for you. For us.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I suppose he’s going to insist on feeding me up before letting us return to Baker Street.”

John felt his stomach drop. “I’m living with someone, Sherlock. It’s serious.” He tried to add, _I love her_ , but found the words caught in his throat.

“Yes, it usually is when you live with someone.” Sherlock said it mildly, but the subtext was plain. “Come on, John. I’m back. There will be cases again. We can text Lestrade this afternoon.”

“No, Sherlock. No.” John held up a forestalling hand. “I don’t do that anymore. I have a serious girlfriend. I have a respectable job at the local surgery.” _I was going to ask her to marry me tonight_ , hung unsaid.

“You can’t possibly mean that.”

Anger flared, hot and sharp in John’s eyes. “Yes, Sherlock, I do. You just about killed me, saving my life, and I’ve finally recovered from it and moved on.”

“No, you haven’t.”

“Yes, I have.”

“No, you haven’t.” Sherlock peered at him intently and spoke quickly, animatedly, “Think about it: the thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins. Just the two of us against the rest of the world!”

John stood up so quickly he tipped the chair over backwards. “Don’t do that!”

“Do what?” Sherlock blinked and looked up at him, unflappable, innocent.

“That!” John yelled, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “You always tell me what to think, but you don’t know, Sherlock! You don’t know!”

“Maybe I do know.” Sherlock spoke so softly John had trouble hearing over his furiously beating heart. “Maybe I know all too well.”

John deflated as if he was a puppet with cut strings, flopping down to sit on the edge of Sherlock’s bed and burying his face in his hands. Eventually, he felt a tentative hand settle on his shoulder. He lowered his hands from his face and said, “I’ll have to see Mary.”

“I know.” The hand on John’s shoulder gave a gentle squeeze. 

“She’s going to be very upset.” John doesn’t want to think about that. He wondered absently if she might throw things.

Sherlock nodded, “Terribly.”

John turned to face Sherlock fully, meeting the other man’s eyes and feeling utterly exposed. “What do we do now?”

“Now?” Sherlock quirked his head to the side, eyes flying rapidly over John’s features, “Now you find me a dressing gown and we go for lunch. Frittata, I expect. You’ll like it.”

“Jesus, Sherlock.” John’s gaze moved to Sherlock’s hand still resting on his shoulder, then back to Sherlock’s face.

“I know, John, and it’s fine.” Sherlock smiled and the corners of his eyes crinkled. “It’s all fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone who left feedback on this one: it’s my first time writing Sherlock (and writing much of anything in a very long time), so your encouragement really meant a lot. I’m stopping here, but I will definitely follow Wintersnest and Geometry’s suggestion and see about a sequel or two (and take the opportunity to take Johnlock’s advice and change the tense).


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